


Extended Invitation

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Banter, Blow Jobs, Comrades in Arms, Confessions, Cuddling & Snuggling, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, First Kiss, First Time (sort of), First Time Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Implied Masturbation, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Multi, Neck Kissing, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Coital Cuddling, Pre-Canon, Sleep Deprivation, Teamwork, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23178625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: InSuzie_Shooter’s short one-off,A Sizeable Matter, a dick-measuring contest between Porthos and Aramis (adjudicated by Athos) turnedsomewhat inevitablyinto a circle-jerk.And I wondered: What happened next? Did they pretend it never occurred or…what…?
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay/Athos | Comte de la Fère/Porthos du Vallon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	Extended Invitation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Suzie_Shooter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Sizeable Matter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1978050) by [Suzie_Shooter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter). 



> This is what happens when my imagination runs riot on _and then what…?_ , and when I ask Certain People on a Musketeers Discord server if I should write that ([with permission](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/285535765), of course).
> 
> The original is as funny and foxy as you’d imagine from that very prolific, utterly fantastic author; you probably don’t have to read it to enjoy this one, but there are a number of quotes/ in-jokes you’ll only pick up if you have (I recommend it, in case that’s somehow not clear).

Three weeks. It’s been three weeks. And, as each day progresses, full of everything normal that went before – sparring, investigating, fighting, intriguing – each night gets–

Don’t say it.

– harder.

_Damn it._

He hasn’t been able to leave the notion alone, now sees again one of them crying out, shuddering, red-hot and wrecked under his grip; now feels the other caressing him diligently until he loses himself, shaking, his own cry bursting from him with his release.

He’s probably going to Hell.

It’s possible that this _is_ Hell.

Because it gets worse: his ever-fertile imagination taking him further, taking _them_ further, and he’s tried, he’s really tried, but the images continue to break in on him at the most inopportune moments, and he can keep them at bay in the light, but here? now? he’s drowning in how… how other… actions might feel, them leaning into the kind of heated intimacy he’s taken for granted for years, with other people. With women.

With–

Shit.

How might it be different? Hard muscles, long limbs, strength and speed the equal of his own. A flat, firm chest, the dusting of hair down a rippling belly. Scars he knows like his own, knowing _exactly_ how they feel under his fingertips.

And he’s seen them, shirtless in exertion, sweat gleaming, the hard grin of triumph, feeling the heat coming off blushing skin. They’ve wrestled enough times for him to know how they move, straining in close quarters; hugged so many times, slept together so many times he’ll swear he knows their scents better than his own.

And now he knows… he knows how, lower, one feels under his fingertips, the heat and hardness of him… the sounds he makes… The way he tries to muffle them behind clenched teeth at first, then surrenders, making a music of it. And he replays this now with other scenarios, hot and urgent, no longer at arm’s length but in embrace. He knows the grip of the other on him, gentle and firm together, the perfect pressure, the ideal rhythm…

Shit! _Shit!_ No, no. No. _No._ Just– Just a game, a joke, a silly thing men do together. Like boys experimenting, right? Moving on. Means nothing. Nothing. Less than nothing. Helping a friend out. A dare. A prank. A bet.

An accident.

They are his brothers. Comrades. Fellow soldiers. And they’ve given absolutely zero indication that they’d want anything more from him.

In the darkness, as if right against his ear, he hears and feels one murmur in a hoarse, daring drawl that does delicious things to his insides: “Aren’t you _curious?_ ”

He curses, trying to keep a grip on his honour, turning over – _again_ – in a bed that suddenly seems too empty, a touch too cold next to the fever consuming him, and wonders about dosing himself with something, anything, just so he can get to sleep. And lose this ludicrous erection.

_Of course, there’s another way to get rid of it…_

Shut up.

_Shame to waste it._

Shut. The fuck. Up.

Honour is a slippery thing. And definitions blur with sleeplessness, under cover of dark. And if a man is going to Hell _anyway…_

His grip tightens.

* * *

Athos wasn’t entirely sure how he’d got dragged into this but, all things considered, was quite glad that he was reasonably sober for once.

It had started as a post-mission celebration, but had contained rather more food and conversation than usual, and for once he found himself wanting to be present rather than drinking himself into a stupor. And, well, actually, he’d be a fool and a liar both if he didn’t acknowledge that he’d been drinking less than usual. For the last… three weeks. Wanting – needing to stay in control. And tonight wanting… wanting there to be no wall between him and his brothers. He hadn’t examined this too closely – he isn’t a man given to introspection about happiness, just… pleased when it turns up and he manages not to push it away.

It had felt nice, meeting eye contact, even holding it occasionally, and here they are, stumbling back, Porthos just a little ahead of them as the way narrows through the night-time market (“Worst. Shortcut. _Ever!_ ” “Shut up, _Count_ ry Boy, what would _you_ know?!” “Small town boy, _actually_ …”) and they’re all lobbing jokes and insults between them one-handed, Aramis’s arm warm around his shoulder, when he adds his own small witticism, grinning across at him, close enough to feel his breath, and everything changes.

Porthos feels the shift ripple down his back like the knife you turn to dodge just in time. “Wanna see you do better, anyway!” he’d said, tossing it over his shoulder with the ease of years and hard-won trust.

“Maybe I will next time!”

“Twenty sous says yours takes longer.”

“That’s quite the boast,” Athos had drawled.

“Hah!” Aramis had said. “I’ll have you know, old chap, my shortcuts are _legendary!_ ”

Porthos found himself grinning. “That’s what… no, wait, _not_ what she said!”

“Listen, do you want me to _adjudicate_ between the pair of you again, because I’d appreciate some warning if–” Athos’s voice, warm with amusement, shatters into a scuffle of feet and creak of leather, and Porthos is already whirling, hand to his sword, half-drawing, then slamming it home as Aramis finishes wrenching their light-eyed comrade by the collar and shoving him against the pillar that supports the overhang that keeps the sleeping stalls dry.

“Aramis!” he shouts, and it’s half warning, half some kind of question.

“Three weeks,” the marksman is snarling as Porthos moves closer. “Three _fucking_ weeks!” he spits, panting, his arm hard across Athos’s chest, the latter tilting his head back a little, face impassive, clearly fighting to keep his own breathing smooth and steady.

“Brother?” asks Athos, voice quiet, tighter than Porthos would like it, but staying very still, clearly meaning to break through whatever has Aramis’s usually sunny visage clenched in a fist. “What is it?”

Aramis feels caught, poised between running off and jumping forward, on a cliff-edge, a tightrope of his own making, but he can hear the tone, if not every word of what Athos is saying, and it allows him to get the next bit out of a throat that is knotting ferociously:

“Tell me.”

“Aramis?”

He ignores Porthos. “Tell me!”

“Tell you what?” asks his tormentor steadily, who, only moments ago, smiling all too close and warm and _present_ under his arm, had casually referenced the thing that everyone’s strenuously not mentioned all this time.

“Tell me,” he grates, head down a little so he can avoid anyone’s eyes, get this out, purge it, “you haven’t been thinking about it. Tell me you haven’t been… _tortured_ nightly by it. Tell me you haven’t just been revisiting – incessantly – what occurred, three _fucking_ weeks ago, in the tavern stables, but… but also finding yourself, straining for release, visited by images of what _could_ have been. What could come next, if we were… if we… _if we wanted_.” He heaves breath into himself. “Tell me you haven’t been wracked by sleeplessness unless you give in, take your cock in hand, lose yourself in the slippery rhythm of surrender. Tell me you can’t even countenance taking anyone else to bed because… because it wouldn’t be fair. _Fucking tell me!_ ” He breathes hard, rapidly, the tight, high note of it matching the desperate pressure of his arm – just his arm, though this close they can feel the heat of each other’s bodies, their betraying breath.

Porthos shuffles in their peripheral vision, lifts a hand abortively, drops it again, biting his lip.

“Well?!” Aramis demands, flicking his eyes up, then down again.

“I–” Athos clears a thick throat, swallows, tries again, reaching up slowly to remove his hat, revealing eyes enormous in the faint light. “I can’t.”

“You can’t _what?_ ”

“I can’t… can’t tell you that–”

“Right–” a descending note.

“– because it’s not true.”

“Wait–” he looks up a little.

“Yes.”

“You mean…”

“I mean,” says Athos carefully, measuring each word for the drop, “that everything you said, everything you’ve been through, I– this last while, I– I find…”

“Oh God,” mourns Aramis, looking up properly now. “You–”

“Yes.”

They stare at each other, Aramis slowly straightening, shifting both hands to lean, either side of Athos’s head, against the pillar behind him, moving the rest of his body into Athos’s space. Porthos finds he’s holding his breath, fists clenching, as Aramis, leaning closer again, murmurs: “I– I want… May– mmh – may I…?”

Athos’s gaze drops to his mouth, his own dropping open a little. He licks his lips. “Yes. Fuck. Ye–”

It starts softly enough, as far as Porthos can tell, but accelerates rapidly, Aramis pressing closer and Athos rising to meet him, one arm coming around his back, the other hand sliding up to pluck the man’s hat off and bury itself in his hair as their heads tilt to take the kiss deeper, and Porthos is panting now, feeling himself swell unmistakably as they start to moan, arms tight about each other. A trickle of sound comes from his own throat and they break off, a little dazed, gaze at him, contrition and dismay dropping through them, and all he can think to do is take this tiny, stumbling step forward, blurting: “Me too!”

They blink at him.

“I– not just you, I–”

“ _Come here_ ,” growls Aramis, pushing himself off Athos and onto Porthos in one fluid movement. And he hears Athos chuckle, then everything else disappears as Aramis’s lips find his and he’s learning first-hand why Aramis has the reputation he has, teasing him with gentle, yet hungry, soft-lipped presses full of promise. When Porthos can’t take any more, he finds himself licking into that willing mouth, clutching hard at his back, welcoming Aramis’s tongue in return, with a moan he can’t control, staggering a little as his knees loosen, hot all through.

He realises that Athos, clearing his throat, has been saying “Gentlemen,” increasingly loudly, for a short while now, and he responds by shunting Aramis deep into the darkness under the overhang of the deserted market and saying, eyes still fixed hot on the man in his grip:

“This is what you meant, right? Out of sight?”

“Almost.” He looks over. Athos’s smile is amused and… soft. Fuck. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him this… yeah, _unguarded_. There’s a quiver to him that makes him reach out, without thinking, and Athos comes to him, light-footed, looking up solemnly to meet his gaze and Porthos barely brakes leaning into his space to ask silently, eyebrows high, just about giving Athos time to nod before their lips are meeting.

It feels, to Athos, like something sliding home at last, as between them they join the last parts of the triangle, and something in him sniggers at this imagery, while the rest of him is struggling to give a damn, feeling Porthos’s strength brace and bracket him, letting him be soft in the way he was not with Aramis. He winds his arms around Porthos’s waist and neck respectively, cups the back of his head, and allows himself, for a brief moment, to fall into him, humming against his mouth, revelling in his scent. This is everything he barely let himself envisage these last few weeks and more.

They break off to breathe, gazing at each other with a soft kind of awe.

“Dear God,” murmurs Aramis.

“Hmm?” he turns, almost blindly, towards him, arms still about Porthos.

“That is,” he says, then shakes his head and starts again, a little breathless still. “That is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.”

“‘Beautiful’?” asks Porthos, frowning, as Athos says:

“We shall endeavour not to apprise any of your paramours of that opinion.”

Aramis coughs a kind of laugh, still sounding somewhat… _battle-shocked_ , he thinks. _That’s what it sounds like._ “We should–”

“Get off the street,” he agrees, sobering. “We could… hang for even this much.”

Aramis, gazing remarkably steadily at him, responds, simply: “We could be shot tomorrow, and for nothing more than upholding the law.” The silence rings with agreement, with a trust that needs no more words.

Porthos nods, stepping back. “Who’s closest?”

“Nope,” says Aramis, picking up his hat, clapping it to his head, and seizing their wrists to tow them into the street. “My place.”

“But–”

“Trust me,” he says, sounding more certain by the moment.

* * *

They make it to Aramis’s lodgings without incident. The streets are as empty as you’d expect after the riotous mess of earlier, and clearly mischief-makers are feeling the need to cool off quietly, where they’re not already forcibly constrained to do so at His Majesty’s displeasure.

Aramis’s lodgings are not in the nicest part of town, but that’s made up for by the fact that he can afford larger rooms as a result, and – as he’s been wont to tell the others – that no-one will bother him, it being a part of town where people resolutely do not bother each other, especially a habitually and heavily armed man. Another benefit is that the tenants directly below him appear to be deaf as posts.

Porthos and Athos have visited before, of course, mostly to socialise, and a couple of times to drag him to the morning muster after some particularly involved evenings left him delightfully woolly-headed. On the whole, they are more likely to visit socially with Porthos, his lodgings being closer to the garrison, and considerably less depressing than Athos’s. (Their visits to Athos’s are brief and – as Aramis generally has it – acts of charity more than anything else.)

Aramis is not letting his nerves show as he unlocks the door to his apartment. However, these two men, who know him best of anyone save, perhaps, their Captain, know exactly how he’s feeling. At least partly because they’re feeling much of it themselves. The walk, while not _too_ long, had been mostly silent, which is unusual for them, and the tension that has built is not _entirely_ pleasant. Once through the door, though, Porthos feels a deal of it drop away, as it turns out he was mostly concerned for being observed. He grins as Aramis, heading to the fireplace to coax what’s slumbering there into better light, says: “Pointy things off, gentlemen!” gesturing to the accustomed place to deposit the various armaments that adorn them at any given time. He finds himself watching with pleasure, as his fingers go about their business of unbuckling and unhitching, Aramis’s figure moving about his home, lighting candles, fiddling with seemingly random objects, shedding weaponry, gloves, and doublet haphazardly as he goes but not, for some reason, his hat.

At a small sigh to his right, he turns to find Athos gazing, much as he is, at their host.

He nudges him. “He’s skittish, then.”

“Hmm.” Athos nods, considering tactics. Then, as abruptly as he ever accelerates into battle, he strides across the floor to take Aramis’s face in his hands and kiss him, hard and deep, stopping him in his tracks.

Aramis squeaks, then seems to melt into him. Within seconds they are breathing heavily, Athos’s hands plunging into the marksman’s wild hair, knocking his hat off, as the latter’s roam his back in turn, further south with each pass.

When Aramis’s grip finally lands on his friend’s arse, he retaliates with a series of biting kisses to his neck that have everyone gasping.

Athos turns his head to Porthos. “Well?” One eyebrow rises. “Were you thinking of joining us?”

“Christ,” Porthos mutters, heading across the floor on something close to a run. He curves in behind Athos, much to the latter’s initial surprise, and presses increasingly hot, wet kisses into those parts of his neck and cheeks he can reach.

Athos growls, twists in their arms, and lands his mouth on Porthos’s, while Aramis chuckles and runs his hands over everything accessible to him. It would appear that Athos, having committed to such a potentially difficult situation, does so with everything he has, as passionate as you might imagine him diffident in such a scenario. In turn, Aramis’s jitters have quite melted away in this renewed heat, and his inventive imagination is swiftly spinning all sorts of pleasant next steps. He is finally back in his element, and soaring.

Athos is starting to feel dizzy, and hauls back to heave air into himself, gasping again to feel Aramis’s lips caressing just below his ear. He is… so hot. Too hot. Too many hands, maybe – a surfeit after starvation. Porthos gazes at him, soft in dancing candlelight, asks: “All right?” as diligently caring as he’s ever seen him.

He feels an ungovernable smile welling up from somewhere deep inside him, utterly unstoppable, watches Porthos’s eyes light in answer, that famous, dimpled grin beaming forth to meet him.

“Oh yeah,” the Parisian chuckles. “There you are.”

He licks his lower lip, feels it swollen under his touch, his teeth catching in it for a moment, and another wave of desire blossoms, suffusing his body with more heat. “What,” he starts, frowns. “What,” he tries again, still a little breathless. “I mean: this is…” he gestures, helplessly, “ _wonderful_ , but what, er–”

“– next?” suggests Porthos in rescue.

“Yes.”

“Well,” comes Aramis’s voice, “what does everyone want? That’s usually the st–”

“I want to come,” states Porthos bluntly, to stifled grunts from the others. “And I wanna see – and help – you both come too. Other than that,” he shrugs, “I’m pretty easy, though I’ve never… you know… with two…” his face creases awkwardly.

“I have,” answers Aramis, airily.

“’Course you have. With, er, with other men…?”

“No,” he says, “never,” and at his tone Athos twists to take in the mild chagrin in his expression.

“You don’t have to–”

“What?”

“– be the expert.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, you don’t need to look after us.”

“What if I want to?”

“That’s different, though. And, you know, we can find stuff out together.”

They all nod, momentarily somewhat speechless.

Athos clears his throat, looking down and to the side somewhat. “I find myself in accord with Porthos’s earlier statement.” Porthos grins and Aramis hums, lips curving wickedly. “It has been…” he ventures slowly, “a while. Years, in fact, but I’m fairly certain that, whatever happens next, fewer clothes are involved.” He smiles shyly around at them both.

“O Sagacity,” intones Aramis, then winks outrageously while gently unwrapping that habitual scarf, then reaches around under Athos’s arm to start undoing his doublet.

Porthos slaps his hands off. “I’ll do that!”

“I surrender to the master,” declaims Aramis, riding over Athos’s stuttering.

Porthos grins and sets to, undoing the garment in short order as Aramis presses delicious kisses to Athos’s neck while caressing his head with one hand and hip with the other.

Porthos spins Athos towards Aramis and says: “Make a start on his points,” as he begins to tug the doublet off Athos’s suddenly nerveless arms.

“Wh– I– _Why?!_ ” he stammers, feeling a blush erupting from his neck to burn his cheeks.

“Because this is your fault?” suggests Aramis with a twinkle, which fades as his face clearly gives entirely too much away at this. If he hadn’t made that _stupid_ joke…

“Oi!” says Porthos, interrupting his slide inward.

“Or rather, let’s say: because we know you,” says Aramis fondly.

“And we know what you’re like,” continues Porthos.

“And we find it altogether likely,” says Aramis, voice trailing into preoccupation as his questing fingers on Athos’s points find quite how aroused he still is.

“– that you’ll see to everyone else first–”

“– before allowing–”

“– or skipping–”

Aramis nods somberly, concluding: “– your own pleasure.”

Athos is awash – face and throat burning, fingertips tingling – to be _known_ like this, so thoroughly (so fondly), is…

Is…

Humil– _liberating_ breaks in the voice that has become increasingly loud over the past few weeks, _just let them_.

“Let us,” murmurs Porthos’s voice in his ear, rough with desire.

“Please,” adds Aramis.

“Yes,” he moans, voice broken, fracturing the word into several syllables.

Aramis leans in to kiss him, gently, sweetly, and he lets him, hearing Porthos sigh happily behind him.

“That’s it.”

Aramis breaks off, smiling, looks downward meaningfully and says: “I need to focus. Never undressed another man before. Well, not for reasons other than a medical emergency.”

He chuckles despite himself, feels Porthos lean in closer, right arm winding about his waist, left sliding up, caressing flank, shoulder, neck, as Aramis bends a distractingly attractive focus to the task at hand. Athos tilts his head, baring his neck a little further, hears Porthos’s breath quiver on the edge of voiced as he runs slow, careful fingers up all those raw, untouched places.

Porthos feels something fracture a little in his own chest as Athos turns his face into his caress, just the way you do when a habitually aloof cat suddenly condescends to butt its head into your palm, demanding affection. He never knew he wanted to see all that tight-held front crumble so utterly. He strokes a tender thumb against the nap of Athos’s beard, quite without voluntary thought, feels Athos’s mouth opening against his fingers, and his chest seizes with the wash of desire bursting through him.

Aramis looks up again, hands stuttering to a halt, as he hears Porthos let out something like a tiny moan. Athos has turned his face into Porthos’s hand, reaching up to hold his wrist lightly, and is mouthing delicately over his fingers, tongue flicking lightly against them. Aramis watches, entranced, breathing “beautiful…” as Athos’s neck twists further and, smiling slightly, he takes Porthos’s thumb into his mouth, sucking it between tight lips, eyes closed in a kind of rapt contemplation.

At another moan, somewhat louder, from Porthos, Aramis jolts back into action, one main ambition now clamouring in his mind. He finishes undoing Athos’s points, enjoys the gasp as he shoves his breeches past his hips and lets them fall to the top of his boots. He takes a moment to palm the already damp bulge in his braies appreciatively, leaning in close and licking against the exposed pulse in Athos’s straining neck. The man’s hips twitch forward, and then again as he clearly fights not to rub outright against Aramis’s hand, letting out something like the tiniest of whines as he shifts the pressure to start undoing his laces.

“Shhh. It’s okay.” A sudden, sobering thought occurs. “Unless you’d rather I didn–”

“Please. _Yes_.” It’s so quiet, his lips barely moving. Porthos curses in a hiss.

“Oh, God,” mutters Aramis as he starts again on the ties, and suddenly the scent of Athos’s arousal is billowing up to him, making his mouth water and his own desire pulse another notch hotter. All of a sudden, all his decisions are made and he pulls his friend’s underwear down slowly, carefully, kneeling as he does so.

Athos looks down dazedly, feels his mouth dry. “No,” he mutters, “no, Aramis, you don’t have to–”

Aramis looks up, gaze somehow both heated and completely at ease. Athos swallows convulsively. “I know. But I want to. I’ve wanted to try this for… a while. If you don’t, I won’t, but…” his eyes widen, and Athos knows he’s being given some version of the famous Stare, and dear Christ, it’s working. “I’d _really_ like to,” he adds, and licks his lips, seemingly reflexively.

Athos feels like he can’t get enough breath, finds himself grating: “Come up here and kiss me first,” from a throat that seems too thick again, hauling Aramis up by his hair, some part of him making a note of how this makes the other man’s eyes roll, and his lips part in a daze as he plunges towards his mouth.

“Hold on,” advises Porthos, and before anyone can ask him _what the hell…?_ he’s throwing his own doublet off, and backing steadily towards the nearest wall, tugging a somewhat hobbled Athos, and thereby Aramis, with him. He stops soon enough, back braced against the brick, Athos braced against him, Aramis straining against the hold on his hair until Athos brings him close and they kiss, harder and hungrier than before, Porthos arching into their warmth, all three of them moaning now, which only serves to make each man hotter, their mutual arousal spiralling upwards.

Aramis finds several advantages to pressing Athos against Porthos, as opposed to a cold pillar:

Firstly – this will be more comfortable for Athos (and safer, considering what he plans to do next).

Secondly – this must be more fun for Porthos than watching from the side.

Thirdly – there is a great deal more warmth for Aramis to touch, more sighs and moans and squirming to elicit from them.

Fourthly – there are more hands to be touching him in return, exploring, learning, sharing pleasure.

In all, he can find no wrong except wishing for more hands, and maybe to have delayed taking Athos’s breeches down so he can grind against him with impunity instead of this more cautious press.

After an increasingly vocal while of deepening kisses, now with extra bite and deeper moans, Aramis pulls back, grinning sharply at Athos. “Now,” he says, relishing each word, “are you going to deny me any further? Or may I go to my knees and suckle you?”

“Oh, Christ,” mutters Athos wildly.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, dear _God_ , yes.”

Aramis sinks slowly, eyes turned up to them, Porthos’s head tilting over Athos’s shoulder for a better view. He walks his hands down Athos’s body as he goes, then lifts his shirt up (Porthos pulls it tight and tucks the excess into his own waistband) and leans in to breathe on his exposed cock.

Athos fails to entirely suppress the sound this wrings from him and Porthos, in response, runs slow hands up and down his torso, pressing tiny kisses to his throat, taking note of which movements bring the best reactions as he does so, enjoying the texture of muscles sliding under linen, the way Athos shudders when he brushes his nipples.

Aramis leans closer yet, closing his eyes for a moment to take in the aroma of his comrade’s arousal, before starting to kiss down one side of his shaft, then up the other. He continues this pattern for a short while, deepening the kisses, adding more tongue, acclimatising them both to the sensations.

By the time he’s frankly licking at his cock, painting it all around, trying to remember the best attentions he’s received and work out how to emulate them, they’re both panting, both desperate for him to… _there_ , a short roll of the hips, a whimper; it’s time.

He looks up again. “Christ have mercy,” whispers Athos, who cannot tear his eyes from this sight.

Aramis smiles slightly, opens his mouth and, without further ceremony, slides the aching, swollen head of his cock between his lips.

“Fuck,” mutters Porthos, movements stilling for a moment before starting again, a touch harder.

“ _Hnn!_ ” agrees Athos, who is wondering if he’s going to last more than a shameful few passes, gritting his teeth for the sheer pleasure of the sensation. His fingers dig into Porthos’s thigh on one side as Aramis starts to slide deeper, eyes closing in what looks like, “ _Ahh_ ,” reverence.

It tastes so _good_ , Aramis is thinking, wondering why he’s surprised, already comparing it to the women for whom he’s done similar service. It is remarkably like their early stage of arousal, if a little saltier, and why not? We’re all made of the same clay, after all.

He decides that he loves the pressure and texture as it passes over his tongue, tries to keep his lips tight and his jaw relaxed, a novel balancing exercise, remembers not to push himself too far down in one go, knowing how mortifying it feels to have someone choke or retch on you, thinking how much worse that would be for someone like Athos.

He keeps the pressure even, starts to stroke with his tongue as he gains a rhythm and depth he’s comfortable with, feels and hears… oh, and _tastes_ the effect this has on Athos, grips his hips a little more firmly as he swells that much harder himself, body clamouring for friction.

Athos is looking down still, resisting the urge to close his eyes, wanting to fix every second of this into his memory, desperate to last. He reaches up and behind him with the hand not clawing into the fabric at Porthos’s thigh, caressing the man’s face and neck briefly.

“Touch him,” murmurs Porthos, nuzzling against his cheek.

“Wh–at?”

A quiet, kind chuckle. “Let him know that… that you’re here with _him_.”

“Oh? Ohh…”

He reaches down and buries his hand in Aramis’s hair, seeing again how it makes his eyes roll, hearing and – Christ God! – _feeling_ him moan around him.

“See?”

“ _Unh!_ ”

Aramis feels an urge now to take him deeper, feel that swelling texture further inside himself, has no means to deny that desire. Athos has started to tilt his hips rhythmically, just a little, and Aramis’s _need_ to have that red-hot strength within him is the kind of hunger he associates with wanting to bury himself as far as possible into a woman, reaching with his tongue, caressing with his lips until she cries out, shuddering (and then again with his fingers until she shouts, then begs for… well, focus…).

Gripping Athos’s cock by its base, he _leans_ harder. In doing this he pushes Athos a little more firmly into Porthos, and Porthos, almost unbearably turned on by the sights and sounds, the way Athos has been writhing against him with his need to move properly, reflexively rolls his own hips in answer, pushing Athos further into Aramis.

The result is instantaneously amazing, them both groaning at the sensation, so he swallows the apology that had sprung to his tongue and pushes again.

Athos is beyond words, beyond coherent thought, and practically beyond the capacity to stand. It takes only a handful more groaning, grinding thrusts, which he has started to match instinctively, before he’s gripping Aramis’s hair hard, trying to stutter out a warning, consumed the next second by a powerful rush of ecstasy that has his head crashing back into Porthos’s shoulder, a cry torn from his throat.

Porthos catches him hard about the waist with one arm, the other braced on the wall as Athos’s weight wavers, knees giving way. “I’ve gotcha.”

Aramis looks up, sitting back on his heels, hand coming up to wipe his mouth, smoothing his beard reflexively. He has swallowed Athos’s seed, and he can’t bring himself to feel bad about this, except that, in the next instant, he’s visited by the image of sharing it with Porthos in an obscene kiss, the thought of which has him moaning and gasping before he can stop himself, hand going in one brief, hard press to his groin.

“You alright down there?” asks Porthos, smirk audible before he peers around the half-swooning Athos, who is still making lightly voiced, panting sounds.

“Mmh.” He smirks back at him. “Delicious.”

“Is that so? Have to see about getting my own taste, won’t I?” Athos whimpers and sways. “In the meantime, best get him sat down.”

“Better yet,” suggests Aramis, rising more smoothly to his feet than he’d have predicted, crossing to the door to the next room, “lying down.”

“Nice,” approves Porthos as he swings it open. “Come on, Wobbly.” He ducks and pulls up Athos’s braies and breeches roughly, fastens the breeches minimally so he can walk with a bit more dignity (if it was him, he wouldn’t be too bothered, but he can imagine Athos getting all inside his own head at the thought of shuffling along with his underwear around his knees, and feels it’s worth the extra effort).

“Mmh,” says Athos thickly, as if absolutely hammered. “W– will, um…”

“What, mate?”

“Wiyou kissmm, kissme? Hmm?”

“With pleasure,” he grins, and Athos, almost purring with delight, grins back at him, craning his neck, and Porthos ducks around to meet him before he falls over, holding him firmly and kissing back as the man slowly sharpens out of his stupor.

“Beautiful,” says Aramis, appreciation broad in his voice.

They break off gradually. “Ykeep sayinat,” says Athos.

“Because it’s true,” comes the warm rejoinder. “Come on, let’s get you into bed.”

“Bloody hell, mate,” Porthos can’t help exclaiming as they cross the room. “Your bed is _massive_.”

“Ta-da!”

Athos sniggers and they exchange delighted glances. Making Athos laugh is always a joy, for its rarity if nothing else.

“Come on, let’s get you comfy.”

“Mmh!”

As they totter him to sit on the edge of the turned-down bed so they can pull his boots off, he grins extravagantly, and vaguely hampers their efforts by trying to stroke and kiss them as they do. This sweet, giggly, affectionately tactile Athos is a revelation, and they find themselves grinning at each other even as they try to hold him off long enough to strip him.

They work their mildly impeded way up his body, piling his clothes together a little way off so he can find them… whenever he needs to. Another unspoken thing, reflects Aramis, watching the others kiss again, indulgent, smiling. While Athos is distracted, he reaches for his shirt, startled by the strength and speed of his reflex clinging to it.

“What…?” asks Porthos, breaking off as Athos tenses against him.

Aramis frowns. “Do you not want to, brother?”

“Hmm?” says Athos, head turning slowly towards him. “Oh. No. I do. Just… wondered if either of you were going to.”

To be completely naked while no-one else is does not sound like a comfortable place for Athos. Aramis nods, smiles, then turns his gaze to Porthos, who smirks. “Yeah, all right. You gonna help?”

“Naturally.”

They both stand and, in front of Athos’s delighted gaze, start to kiss again. This will take some getting used to. He never wants to get used to it. He wants it as fresh and wonderful as this – them swaying, kissing, smiling against each other, Porthos’s fingers at Aramis’s neck, loosening his shirt ties, then leaning in to kiss the exposed collarbone, Aramis’s head going back a little, eyes shuttered, expression blissful, his fingers still working at Porthos’s points at a steady rate.

Then they swap, and Athos finds his fingers tightening in his own shirt at the dance of them, candlelight gilding their beauty (Aramis is right) as first Porthos then Aramis is helped out of his shirt, both of them having nipples tweaked by clever fingers and wicked tongues until their breath is coming heavy, edging onto voiced.

“Let me help you,” he says, quite before he knows he’s going to.

Aramis twists that lascivious, dreaming smile his way. “What were you thinking?”

He raises an eyebrow, peers up at them a little through his lashes, and their grins grow a little more heated. He gestures casually: “Your boots?”

“Right you are,” smirks Porthos, turning and lifting his left to land on the edge of the frame, next to Athos’s leg.

He smiles up at him – a small, private thing – then slides his hands to grip so Porthos can pull. He tosses the boot to one side, landing with a sharp clatter on the boards. The gaze between them intensifies, and Porthos slowly lifts the other foot to place it right between Athos’s thighs.

Athos sends an expression of _Challenge accepted_ , grips, and, when Porthos has pulled out of the heel, runs his right palm up to stroke the boot off (or his leg out). Porthos starts to wobble, so he pulls the rest of it off quickly, but guides his leg back to the ground.

“You,” says Porthos, a touch breathlessly, “are a menace.”

He smirks, throws the boot to join its fellow, then gestures with his head and eyes for Aramis, who looks as though he’s preparing a challenge of his own. As soon as his foot is raised, Athos strokes all the way up the back of his leg to caress the back of his thigh, then back down to grip.

Aramis makes an _I see…_ face. When Athos goes to do the same thing for the other leg as it’s lifted, he reaches down and gently presses his open palm against his temple, watching Athos’s resolve dissolve a little, face softening, eyes closing, head turning into the gesture.

“Take my boot off,” he tells him softly.

Athos lifts a small smirk to him, grips, and allows him to remove it. He puts it under the bed with the other then, before Aramis has entirely recovered his balance, he strokes up the back of both thighs and then around to the front, slipping his hands along the inside of his waistband and peeling back the leather, fingers rippling as he goes, looking up at the crucial moment as if to say _May I?_ And Aramis nods, a little overcome after all, as Athos pulls his breeches down, helps him step out of them.

Before Aramis can do or say anything else, Athos is kissing up his thigh, slow and firm so as to be felt through the fabric, hands light on either hip. Aramis moans and wobbles briefly, and Athos hears Porthos step up to brace him. He doesn’t stop kissing when he reaches the top of his thigh, nuzzling into Aramis’s balls and the base of his cock while Aramis whimpers a little. He shifts, plants a further kiss to one side and looks up. Porthos smirks, twists his hips, and, with a quick shove, lets his own undone breeches drop.

Athos nods and sits back as the man kicks out of them. “Strip each other bare and I’ll remove my shirt.”

His voice is dark and rough, a smoky order, stroking them with every syllable. Aramis swallows, Porthos laughs, and then they’re turning into each other’s embrace, kissing hard and a little frantic, pressing and rocking against each other head to toe until Athos clears his throat and, smirking into their kisses, they set to work on each other’s laces, accompanied by a fair amount of needless retracing of fingers across the bindings, and unhelpful writhing.

“Hurry up,” he calls in a bored voice.

“I ain’t ever undressed a man before either, not this far.”

“It _might_ be a medical emergency,” comes the dry retort.

The braies come loose and Porthos slips his hand into Aramis’s underwear, groping him shamelessly while the man moans. “There does seem to be a _little_ inflammation, to be fair.”

The patient recovers himself somewhat on a shake of his head, and wriggles his hips from side-to-side until the fabric starts to slide, Porthos helping it down. He treads out of the puddle hurriedly, then slowly peels Porthos’s down, taking off his stockings en route.

Porthos grins, hauls him up, then ducks down to remove Aramis’s. They turn to Athos, who smirks something like _Well done_ , fighting not to show how much this has unmastered him, then stands and strips off his shirt as slowly as he dares.

He has not accounted for their further capacity for conspiracy, and finds himself with his arms trapped behind him in the folds of his shirt, held in strong grips, having each nipple licked and sucked, feeling himself, astonishingly, start to swell again slowly.

Porthos, of course, notices, stepping back a little and nudging Aramis, who chuckles and tongues Athos’s chest a touch harder before releasing him and moving behind him to undo his cuffs.

Athos smiles at Porthos, who grins back, lays a hand on his shoulder. “You alright, there?”

Athos takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Bit much.”

“Somewhat.”

“Hmm. Shift the focus?” He nods, gaze moving meaningfully to over Athos’s shoulder. “Someone who’ll welcome it?”

Athos smirks. “An admirable suggestion.” He eases his shoulders out, eyes slipping sideways as he concentrates on the sensations behind him, and Porthos can’t help but smile for that, seeing his tactician brain winding up, spinning possibilities, in this as in everything else, wonders briefly at the sudden and complete happiness flooding his chest, knowing how much has changed, how little has changed, and how this all comes down to a naked, smiling, scheming Athos and a naked, humming, solicitous Aramis. And a naked, grinning, bracing him, for the matter of that, and Athos must feel some of this (in the way his grip shifts on his shoulder maybe) looking around at once, sharp concern and good humour married, a look he’s seen so many times and here stealing his breath.

“He’s right,” he tells him. “You’re beautiful.”

A complex, pleased-embarrassed expression crosses the man’s face, blush rising, something to delight in all over again, but Athos shakes his shoulders, raises an eyebrow and says: “Both of us? Together?” soft tone so completely at odds with the familiar sharpening of his gaze that Porthos nearly gives the game away by laughing, instead pressing a knuckle hard underneath his nose, sniffing, and nodding, squaring his own shoulders, broadening his stance.

“There,” says Aramis, “all done!” and pulls away the shirt.

A flick of Athos’s eyes and they both pounce on the other man, spinning, tripping, and tipping him to his bed with something of a squawk.

He rolls to his back, gorgeously tousled, and Porthos clambers onto the bed and then onto him, pressing full-length, Aramis’s breath going out on a high note that shifts into a moan, nails going into Porthos’s back as Porthos bites down on the junction between neck and shoulder.

Aramis gasps, finding his breath coming hard, and not caring in the slightest, as he writhes, grinding against the flesh above him. Porthos notices, though, lifts some of his weight on his elbows, gentles his attentions.

“Christ, _don’t stop!_ ”

“Ain’t gonna.” He grins down at him. “Gonna bring in some assistance, though.”

A scoffing sound. “Move over,” Athos tells him, crisply.

Porthos grins over his shoulder. “Ask nicely.”

“Move over or spend the rest of the evening tied up.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“I’m more than happy to indulge you – I’m sure Aramis has plenty of inventive restraints about the place.”

“I might enjoy that.”

“Hmm. Even if I leave you unable to touch yourself?”

“Fair point.” Porthos heaves himself to Aramis’s far side. “We’ll save the tying up for another time, maybe.”

Athos eases onto the bed, one knee going between Aramis’s thighs. “As you wish.”

Porthos leans up and whispers in his ear: “I didn’t mean _me…_ ”

“You blush wonderfully,” remarks Aramis, as though this is new and thoroughly delightful knowledge.

Athos bends a repressive look his way. It has no appreciable effect.

“I see,” he says, drily, and curls in to the other side of Aramis’s neck from where Porthos has already left marks. Said marks are duly refreshed by Porthos as Aramis squirms between them, desperate, now, for friction.

“Please!” he groans at last.

“Please what?” murmurs Athos against his collarbone.

“You know very well what!”

“Dear me!” reproves Athos. “I hope you’re more eloquent with your female conquests…”

“This isn’t necessary,” he replies through gritted teeth.

“Are you saying we’re less innocent?” asks Athos, pushing himself higher over Aramis.

“Or that we’re less worth the effort?” demands Porthos, all wounded humour.

“Either way–”

“– I feel quite–”

“– misrepresented.”

“Yeah. Also: undervalued.”

“Demeaned.”

“Ooh, that too.”

“Oh, _come on!_ ” Aramis squirms.

“I already did,” Athos reminds him.

“In,” corrects Porthos.

“Quite. And I suppose he _is_ the expert…”

“He’s told us so enough times.”

“Hmm.”

“Mind…”

“You _utter_ b–”

“Yes?”

“–astards, I–”

“If it hadn’t been for him bragging that time–”

“Which time?”

“Good point… Now, as I recall–”

“Listen, you absolute–” Porthos reaches over and casually pins the writhing marksman.

Athos nods his thanks.

“– I will steal your hat you _total_ arsewipe–”

“Must have been a few weeks ago now.”

“– and hide it in the jakes!”

“Whereabouts?” Athos shifts so that his thigh is trapping Aramis’s.

“And _you_ , you perfidious wanker–”

“The Wren?”

“– I will steal every–”

“A tavern?”

“– wine bottle–”

“Yeah, that or the, uh, what’s the one near the theatre?”

“– from your apartment–”

“Which one?”

“– except for the ones I piss in!”

“Got it!” exclaims Porthos, gleefully, clicking his tongue in lieu of his fingers, none of which are precisely free.

“Pray tell.” Athos leans and gently bites into the top of Aramis’s arm, washing his tongue against the trapped flesh so that Aramis’s imprecations shift into moans.

Porthos chuckles. “The Bull’s Head.”

“Mmh.”

“Where he claimed to have the biggest–”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Athos’s fingers find his nipple. “ _Auh! Oh! Fuck!_ I’m _really_ sorry!”

“You hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here.”

Aramis’s contrition melts instantly. “I can bear such responsibility.”

“With proper humility,” Athos observes, leaning to kiss him.

“Naturally,” the last part coming on a groan as Porthos leans in for his own kiss, and for a wonderful, ridiculous moment the three of them are kissing together. It is messy and imperfect and Aramis wonders, for a breathless suspension of time, if he’s actually going to die of this.

He thrashes as they each move across his cheeks, down his neck, then chest, displaying the kind of synchronisation you’d expect from the elite of France’s finest regiment, pinning his arms, then thighs, occasionally kissing across him as they make their way down his torso and–

And…

And?

“What?” asks Athos. “I thought you liked teasing? I’ve often heard you say so.”

“I think he means that _he_ likes to tease,” suggests Porthos.

“Ah.”

“There’s _teasing_ ,” manages Aramis, “and then there’s _torture_.”

“An interesting philosophical – or do I mean linguistic? – conundrum,” ponders Athos, kneeling back on the bed.

Aramis snarls and Porthos laughs. “Best get on with it, then,” he advises.

“That seems wise.” Athos looks at Aramis. “Anything I should know?”

“About me or about pleasuring people in general?”

“There’s still a lot of bite in him,” Athos tells Porthos.

“Maybe I should occupy his mouth while you get down to business.”

“Interesting…”

“Come here,” pants Aramis. “I’ll bite you.”

“Oooh…” Porthos grins down at him, broad as sunrise, and Aramis just melts, no other word for it.

Athos raises both eyebrows.

Porthos smirks over at him. “There’s one to remember.” He sniffs, nods sideways. “Go on, then.”

Athos nods. He shuffles down the bed, to Aramis’s profound relief. Soberly, one hand on his thigh, still sitting up, he asks him: “In all seriousness – I’ve never done this before… How–?”

“Well,” Aramis tries not to feel too impatient, “just do what I did. Although, if you were able to concentrate hard enough for note-taking all the way through, I wasn’t doing my job properly.”

Porthos sniggers.

“Or,” he goes on, “just adapt what you’d do with a woman… that is, if–”

Athos clears his throat and nods, a faint blush rising in his cheeks again. He writhes further down, moving onto his front and stretching his legs out, starts to kiss from Aramis’s belly down his hip to his thigh, where he uses his teeth a little, Aramis’s breath hitching, fingertips digging briefly into the sheet beneath him. He starts to use his tongue more, licking away the sting, then moving over in a series of beckoning curls where he starts to nuzzle Aramis’s balls again, only this time wetter, his breath gusting over the most sensitive parts of him, parting his thighs further, raising them to wriggle his shoulders beneath, lifting each tightening testicle with his tongue, caressing, humming into the motions.

Aramis makes a sound he refuses to identify as a whimper, let alone a whine. Porthos, silent and transfixed until this moment, turns his head to smile down at him, then winks and says: “Wanna sit up so you can see more clearly?”

“I don’t know if I dare.”

“I could prop you with a pillow.”

“Mmmh.”

“How’s it feel?”

“Nice. Really, rr– _mmh_.” He tries again. “Really nice.”

“Just _nice_ though?”

Athos clears his throat meaningfully, to a snigger from Porthos. Aramis catches the look in his friend’s sea-bright eyes that he recognises for the one which usually sees his opponent disarmed or cut down rapidly with a dance-like stance shift and flick of the wrist. He swallows.

A tightened grip on his thighs is the only other warning he gets as the deft tongue goes lower, “ _Ohh!_ ”, flickering down his perineum and towards, “ _Mmh!_ ”

“Is he–?”

“Yep!” he replies tightly.

“Well, you did say ‘like with a woman’.”

Oh, the sly bastard. He rolls his eyes.

“And how does _that_ feel?” his other torturer continues.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ!” His hips buck, pushing towards Athos, who nips his thigh reprovingly and carries on.

“That good, huh?”

“I wouldn’t– it’s– I’ve nev– okay, _once_ , but– _Nnh!_ ”

 _Fuck_ , his cock is harder than he could have imagined, having barely been touched, leaking freely onto his belly, and Porthos is _there_ , suddenly, slotted down the side of him, leaning in with a question in his eyes as if there’s _any_ doubt any more, and he reaches up to pull him down, kissing hard and reckless, revelling in this new sensation of beard on beard, the heat and strength of him, everything he’d imagined and tried so hard not to. Athos’s beard is scratching his thighs, and he’d never imagined _that_ , wouldn’t have thought he’d– and it’s– and thought is fading a little as he registers Porthos’s hand creeping down his torso towards– God, _please!_ And–

– Athos’s hand flashes out to grab Porthos by the wrist.

“Really?” asks the larger soldier.

Athos’s eyes, rising as he pushes himself upwards, to Aramis’s thwarted snarl, are mild as he tells Porthos: “After I did all the hard work?”

“Pfft. Hardly. ’sides, who undressed him?”

“Hmm.”

“See?”

“Consider, though, that you brought him off last time…”

“True, but–”

“Gentlemen,” interjects Aramis, hearing his own voice wobble, trying not to mind, “it’s not a competition!” His attempt at humour fades from his face as their expressions each heat up. “Unless… it is…?”

Athos uncoils from between his legs, and Porthos dives. They tussle, each landing tongue and lips on either side of the contested flesh. Aramis groans and rolls between them, feeling tongues lash and even lips meet in a filthy kiss across him. His hands flail and his fingers hook into their shoulders as his hips start to churn rhythmically and all three of them moan in the most obscene harmony.

“Oh! Oh _God!_ ” he calls out, that much closer to his fall.

Athos draws breath, pulling back a notch for what, he suspects later, reconstructing this as he will most nights for the rest of his life, was due to be some dry witticism regarding blasphemy, and Porthos takes advantage, shouldering in to engulf Aramis.

His fingers tighten in their shoulders, and he thinks Athos murmurs “I see…” before bending lower, letting tongue and lips play over his balls again. It’s exquisite, ridiculous, perfect…

Porthos pins Aramis’s hips, shifts his angle and takes him deeper. And it turns out that it doesn’t matter that Porthos is a little clumsy, because he is so… incredibly… _eager_.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ ”

Porthos licks a little now as he moves, and Aramis surrenders, just lets everything build, Porthos suddenly tensing and crying out against and around him, dear saints in Heaven…!

Everything tightens and his body bows out in ecstasy, spirit suspended, singing… plummets, and is caught, stroked, soothed, each touch still ringing through him.

Porthos is choking a little. He thinks some might have gone up the back of his nose, and he’s no idea why the force (and heat, and _taste!_ ) of it surprised him, but he thinks he could learn to love even that if it makes someone writhe and murmur sweet nonsense like this, and besides, he won’t stop until Aramis is fully spent. And he’d really like Athos’s hand back on his cock, but you’ve got to look after people – it’s just what you do.

As he rises, Aramis softening beneath him, Athos is pulling him away, fingers tight in his hair, mouth and tongue demanding against his, like an order, and he twigs that he’s after the taste, _fuck!_ and, as he lets him in deep, matching him lash for lash, twisting in answer, drinking his moans, it’s already almost too much for him. He’s trying to stroke Aramis back down, take as much care of him as he did Athos, and– Come on, pull yourself together, man…

A hot, slender hand pats his, holds it to its owner’s still-heaving chest for a second, stilling his strokes. “M’fren, i’s time.”

“Hmm?”

“’sides, want seeit – Mighty Porthos brought to’is fall.”

“Mmffuck!” he says, muffled against an insistent Athos’s lips, who chuckles, then pushes as Aramis pulls, and they’d normally stand no chance of getting him on his back except that he wants to go. Fuck, yes!

Aramis rolls over; gentle, fever-hot arm going across him, and nuzzles into him, kind of floppy and gorgeous (he’s always thought so, but now it’s a gift of beauty rather than something amusing or irritating, or even some kind of bloody competition), and he smells fucking _amazing_ , so he twists further to the right, grips his near shoulder, buries his nose in the crook of his neck. Aramis writhes closer, hand starting to stroke his chest, wickedness waking in the wriggling fingertips and Athos…? Where–?

He pounces like a cat, astride his left leg, delivers a set of kisses down his chest and belly that land like punches, and Porthos loves this, getting louder as each one gets harder, and by the time Athos is scraping beard and teeth down his hip, he’s groaning and cursing with every other breath.

Aramis claims his mouth in a kiss that starts sweet and soft and turns toothed, his cry muffling against his lips, fists clenching, and then Athos bites hard into his inner thigh and it’s like a lance right to his cock.

“Fuck! _God!_ ”

Athos licks at it, and he knows he’s going to be wearing that mark for a while, wants more, can’t stop his hips shifting, tilting, all-but thrusting towards Athos, who chuckles like the cunning fucking bastard he is, nibbling his way inward, then sliding a hot, wet tongue up his shaft.

His mouth breaks from Aramis’s as his head goes back, digging into the mattress, groaning loudly. Then he feels Athos’s mouth stretch about the head of his cock, and it’s all he can do not to thrust upwards.

“Tell me how it feels,” murmurs Aramis, propping his chin on his shoulder.

He rolls wide eyes towards him.

“Go on.”

“Is this… punishment or something, coz…?”

“Hardly, unless you would like some, though I don’t see that being your style, somehow.” He hums briefly, smirking to himself. “Maybe consider this some kind of reparation for how much of this whole situation could be considered your fault…?” Porthos flashes back to slipping a mischievous hand around first himself then Aramis in a stables he’s probably never going to be able to visit ever again. At least with anyone other than these two.

“More usefully, however,” the marksman continues, “it may help to keep you tethered to earth a while longer. Also: it will keep me from talki–”

“ _Auh!_ Alright! Fine!” He has absolutely no control over his volume, veering wildly between overloud and a cracked kind of murmur. “Uh, um, I can fee– mmh, feel his lips around me.” Uneven, unlike any other lips he’s ever had on any part of him, and God help him, that makes it all the fucking better, somehow. Can’t say that aloud, though. Christ. Come on. “Still quite, um, quite shallow, and… fuck, so warm, God, Aramis, he’s so _warm_. Now a bit, a bit deeper, shit. His– fuck, his tongue!”

“Good, isn’t it? Strong.”

“Yes! And… and he’s moving… oh, fuck. It’s so–”

“What?”

“Auh! Fuck! Good– good rhythm!” he pants.

A chuckle. “That’s our Athos. Constant and diligent.”

That earns a hum from an unimpressed-looking Athos, which has Porthos clenching his fists all over again as it vibrates around him, so of course the fucker tries it again, deeper this time, and Porthos’s eyes roll again. Oh, God, he wants to move, to thrust, he’s not sure how long he can hold out. “God, that’s _good!_ ”

Athos lifts off him entirely, pulling in a deep breath, starting to stroke him with a firm hand. “I can’t take you deep,” he says, apologetically, “I– I may well be sick if–”

“How do you _know_ that?!” demands Aramis, somehow sounding delighted.

“I’ll tell you another time. It’s a very boring story. Oh. Oh, _yes_ , I want to feel you do _that!_ ” Porthos has started to thrust into his grip – he can’t hold back any longer, groaning on each stroke.

“Keep your hand on him,” advises Aramis, sounding remarkably sorted, if somewhat breathless. “That will protect your throat if you want to. Oh, yes. Ohh…”

Porthos is drowning in sensation, loving every second – the hot, slippery tug of Athos’s fist, Aramis against his side – and then Athos’s mouth joins his hand and he’s lost, can’t stop, hips pumping, left hand clawing into the sheets, right hand into, oh, into Aramis’s arse. Aramis starts to kiss his neck and shoulder again, adding teeth into the mix, and he peels his eyes open long enough to see Athos, so focused, so fucking _present_ , and that’s it, he can’t…

“Gonna–!” he warns, trying to free his left hand long enough to grab Athos, but it’s too late and Athos is crying out around him almost as loud as he is, bucking and buzzing, clenched all through, then floating down, still spasming, feeling Athos licking around him, and it’s like he’s been in a knot for weeks that’s finally coming undone, practically swooning, and he’s drowning, dissolving, but pulling Athos up to hug him, he can do that.

Athos and Aramis are kissing across him and it’s beautiful, and he tries to tell them, but his voice is lost too, so it’s a bit of a croak, but they stop and turn, start stroking his chest and face, thumbs wiping under each eye, steady and lovely and… what…?

“Wha–?”

“Porthos?!”

“It’s okay,” Aramis is saying.

“S’fine, s– m’fi– shh!”

“But–” starts Athos, is hushed by Aramis, who tells him:

“Sometimes people cry when they’ve let go like this. It’s a _good_ thing. Trust me.”

Athos makes a skeptical noise, but settles in next to Porthos who tries talking again, gives up at the burble of mashed-up sound, and just pulls them both close.

Porthos is like one of those stone bottles of hot water Athos’s nurse used to put in his bed, and he finds he’s feeling safer than he has done in… a long time. Years. He’s not going to think about it. Just snuggle into this bear of a man he’s managed to so thoroughly undo (with assistance), and reach across to take Aramis’s hand in his, to the man’s obviously delighted surprise. He can’t hold his gaze too long, or he might start weeping himself, and there’s only so much he can bear to unwind in one go after all, so closes his eyes and nuzzles closer, feeling his breath and pulse already start to slip into sleeping rhythms.

Aramis casts a slightly proprietorial eye over the pair of them, here in his bed, so gorgeously relaxed and uncommonly unvigilant, although they both grumble when he wriggles free to reach down and pull up the sheets and blanket he’s blessing himself for remembering to turn down before fetching the pair of them in here. It’s a tight stretch, but this is a bed made for a family, sheets and blankets likewise, and he thinks: _it still is_ , and has to close his eyes again, overcome for a moment, then settles against them again, finding Athos’s hand, letting himself just be overcome.

Each man slips into dreaming, knowing without words, in the core of his marrow, that he is willing to fight to the death for this… whatever it is… this deepening of their trust and brotherhood. In the morning, there will have to be more conversations, maybe; or maybe that wordless communication that has been serving them ever more strongly over the past year or so will take them where they need to go – a series of nods and kisses to seal this new compact between them.

And perfection will be neither demanded nor required.

Which is a good job, really. But for the moment, they sleep, as perfectly at rest and peace as men like them can be.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been an interesting experience, and the longest single chapter work I’ve yet written. It’s not entirely what/ how I’d usually write, and it’s certainly not a straight-up copy of the inspiring author’s style (though there are a couple of nods towards some of her other works along with the quotes from/ references to the original material).
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who said: _LOL, go for it!_ And enormous thanks, of course, to Suzie_Shooter herself, an absolute star of this fandom.


End file.
